The metallic taste of blood in Kieran's throat stirred him to consciousness. His eyes shot open to catch the faint flicker of oil lamps casting shadows across the stone ceiling and the tiled walls.
For a moment, Kieran was without thought as he just stared at a loss, his whole body weak and slow to function. A damp chill clinging to his skin.
' Where am I?' The thought suddenly occured to him as he found the world around him strange.
Kieran could vividly remember dying, and even if he had been saved, why was he lying on the cold floor?
'Did I fall out of the bed in the hospital?' he pondered the most rational thought, finding the strength to push himself to sit.
But then, his sluggish eyes adjusted to the sight of a wooden washbasin in the side, cracked tiles across the floor, and the chute latrine behind him, overlayed with a wooden board.
Kieran realized he was in some sort of restroom that somehow felt both ancient and fancy, like something an ambitious billionaire would have built after reading too many Renaissance fantasies.
Just then, his eyes caught the cold knife laying on the floor just by his side, stained in a pool of sticky blood. It wasn't until then that he noticed his shirt was also bloodied with a hole punched in it by something sharp.
Kieran panicked. But his thought diverted when he realized his pants were wet, warm, and unpleasantly sticky.
Kieran blinked and leaned in to sniff once, then winced at the stench that hit his nose. "…Oh, fantastic. I've shit myself."
There was no horror in his tone. Only flat, analytical despair.
"What the fuck is going on?"
"Mischief System successfully initiated," said a mechanical, female voice that did not belong in a washroom all of a sudden just as Kieran questioned.
A screen appeared right above Kieran mid-air, startling him.
"Hm?" Kieran groaned seeing this. It wasn't merely a groan of confusion, but more the groan of a man who had clearly lived through both taxes and betrayal long enough to discern his situation. The screen seemed to convey the same words spoken by the mechanical female voice just now.
Kieran stood hurriedly, examining himself like a scientist forced to dissect a corpse he didn't order. He had a notion what had happened to him, but he dared not boldly assume the truth.
The sight of his fine tunic shirt, long hose, golden detailed surcoat and pointed shoes were obvious enough. However, Kieran could only be certain with one thing.
He approached the small, round mirror on the wall which was slightly fogged, yet clear enough to confirm one disturbing truth.
He wasn't himself!
His jawline was too sharp; eyes too bright and pale a shade of blue. His hair a messy aristocratic brown. He had a noble look, that contrasted entirely what he remembered himself to look like.
"Hmm," Kieran muttered, pressing a thoughtful finger to his lips. "Quite handsome, but weak and of questionable hygiene. I've either been transmigrated into another body or surgically demoted." He concluded.
The screen above him flickered again before him, letters forming from shimmering light.
[Synchronizing host's memory...]
He barely had time to raise an eyebrow before the flood hit.
A rush of memories that weren't his eroded his mind.
Mockeries and laughters, sceneries of several ballrooms full of sneers and jest at him, a woman whispering sweet nothings to his brother while calling him unworthy to be her husband.
It was a memory full of nothing but hurt and humiliation, endless failures full of regret and attempts to end it all. Only to be stabbed in the end, in the very same washroom he was standing in at the moment.
When the influx stopped, Kieran was left standing still; eyes twitching, breath hitched, and with one hand pressed to his temple as he bent to recollect himself.
"...So," he muttered at last when he finally caught himself, "I'm an illegitimate noble loser named Metis who's been murdered on his betrothal banquet to a fiancée who preferred the other brother?" Kieran realized whose memories these were.
He first expressed a sad expression, straightening his back to look at the face in the mirror. Then his lips curved into a grin, slowly and terrifyingly.
"Hahaha!" He chuckled to himself, covering his face with one hand. " Poetic, Perfect!" he cackled in ecstasy.
The mirror caught his slanted, half-crazed grin. One wouldn't expect that Kieran would find delight in the ruins of Metis's tragedy.
[Host memory synchronization complete:]
[Player's status evaluated.]
[Status:]
[ Name: Metis Von Donahue ]
[ Class: Noble Height: 1.76m ]
[ Title: NIL Age: 28 ]
[ Attributes: ]
[ Strength: 10 Agility: 8 ]
[ Intelligence: 21 Charisma: 2 ]
[ Luck: 15 Karma: 0 ]
[ Skill: ]
[ Host is yet to acquire a skill. ]
[ Assigning New Mischief mission to Host]
[ New mission: RUIN THE BETROTHAL BANQUET]
[Reward: Unknown. ]
[Failure: Death ]
Kieran tilted his head at the hovering screen, then chuckled. "Ah, so it begins. Death for failure?" He chuckled again, shaking his head. " Isn't that a bit dramatic?"
He leaned closer to the mirror, voice dropping to a giddy whisper. " But still. Finally… a life that rewards insanity. How marvelous!"
His grin stretched wider as he placed a hand on his chest, hitting a melodramatic pose in his shit-filled hose and bloodied shirt. "A new life in the body of a loser. A world of nobles, hypocrisy, and powdered wigs." His eyes gleamed. "I have been transmigrated into this world of wonder! Ahhh!" He moaned in saddistic joy.
Kieran straightened his spine, hair disheveled, eyes alight with manic clarity. " I will see all the perspectives in this world from the background. I will never make the same mistake I made in my past life."
He burst into soft laughter, head tilted back, voice echoing faintly in the tiled chamber.
Kieran was beyond elated.
But just as he revelled in his madness, the door suddenly creaked open.
A gaunt man with short blonde hair dressed in a uniform patched coat with black details and a hose to match stepped in, stiff in his livery, carrying a bucket and a disgusted expression just as he laid sight on Kieran.
Kieran slowly turned, a soft smile now plastered on his handsome face, eyes gleaming with the mischief of a mad saint. ' My very first victim.'